Mon Legionnaire
by Maxie Kay
Summary: A look at what happened to the team in Romania from a different perspective. An alternative take on s3, ep.1 'Lange,H'. Death fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Mon Legionnaire**

**An NCIS: Los Angles Fanfiction  
>by<strong>

**Maxie Kay**

I can see what you're thinking, as you walk past with your head in the air, pretending you don't see me. You know me, so don't pretend you don't. You know me because I'm the girl your mother warned you about and told you to stay away from. I'm the girl who hangs around in bars and stands on street corners; who smiles at strangers and takes them home with her. I'm the girl who's doing whatever she can to make enough money to get out of this crummy town, far away from the Black Sea, maybe leave Romania altogether. I'd been thinking about going to Germany, but then I met this man and I've never quite been able to forget him. So come on, buy me a coffee, pull up a chair and sit down and I'll you about the day these four Americans drove into town and why I'm still here, long after they left. Just the price of a cup of coffee, that's all I'm asking. I don't do that stuff anymore. Well, hardly ever. I'm saving up so I can go to America, and that's not cheap.

There are two things you need to know about this town: first, you don't mess with the Commescus. Second: if you do mess with the Commescus, you need to get out of this town and preferably get out of the country. It's safer that way. And there aren't exactly a whole lot of reasons to stay here, are there? Sure, the beach is pretty enough, but there's no jobs. Not unless you want to work for the Commescus, and you'd have to be pretty desperate to do that. It's kind of risky, working for them, if you know what I mean. So I don't work for them, not really. I just do what I have to do.

Some people call me a working girl, others aren't quite so nice. He called me 'honey' and he was polite, the way Americans are. So very clean and so very polite. You can always tell Americans. The French are rude, the British are snooty and the Germans think they rule the world. And don't even get me started on the Russians. But he was American and he treated me like I was a lady. That doesn't happen very often. And of course, he wasn't a legionnaire, I knew that. But when I saw him and his friends sneak into town, I knew they weren't just tourists. It was the wrong time of year for a start. And the wrong place. There's nothing for tourists here, not yet. But it was more than that: they looked like they were on some sort of mission, very possibly something illegal, or undercover. They looked like soldiers or mercenaries – same difference really. They both kill people. The trick is not to be one of the people they kill.

In my line of work you learn to read a situation pretty quickly. And I'm a good judge of people, especially men. I know when to say 'no' just by looking at the way a man stands. I looked at him and I knew I could trust him. He stood tall and straight, like he owned the world and didn't care who knew it. He looked like a legionnaire: tall and proud and completely self-assured.

So I was intrigued. I watched the four Americans, as they tried to be unobstrusive and moved around this town where nobody comes unless they have a damn good reason. They were the most interesting thing that had happened here in years, believe me. I don't count the Commescus – they aren't interesting: they're just evil. They hurt people because they can, it's as simple as that. They have power and they enjoying using that power.

I watched them all, but mostly I watched him. I couldn't take my eyes off him. They spent a long time on the beach, and they came into this café, probably to get warm because there was a cold wind blowing that day. They were all wearing black leather jackets and it seemed to bring out the blue of his eyes and that drew me to him. It drew me to him like a magnet. There was just something about him, something about his eyes, those big, bright eyes, that made me imagine I could see the storm clouds blowing across them. I was probably staring. And that's when the radio started to play that song, _'Mon Legionnaire'_ and I thought "so that's who you are."

Don't look at me like that. You know the song – of course you do. Everybody knows that song. Some people prefer the Serge Gainsbourg version, but for me it has to be Piaf. Listen to it and hear the emotion. She didn't sing from the heart – she sang with her heart. And it doesn't matter that she died years before I was born, because I kind of identify with her. She was just like me- just another girl trying to make a life for herself. I should have listened more carefully to the words though, I really should have listened. Maybe if I'd listened, then things might have different. Maybe I could be living _La Vie en Rose_ instead of sitting here in this dead-end town talking to a complete stranger.

I never understood him, but then I never had a chance to know anything about him, apart from the fact that he and his friends were here to take out the Commescus. Why else would they have come here? I didn't even know his name. The only things I knew were that he was tall and he had the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. Oh, and that he was American. I've had this thing for Americans ever since. I only had one night with him, but he loved me all night. _Mon legionnaire… mon legionnaire Americain._

I knew they were talking about me, but I sat in this very seat and I drank my coffee and pretended I didn't notice the way they had their heads together and kept their voices low. I knew exactly what was going to happen next. I just didn't know which of the men would come over to my table. But I was hoping. A girl can always hope, can't she? No matter how old we get, no matter what life throws at us, we keep on hoping. Sometimes that's the only thing that keeps you going.

This time though, I was wrong, because the men just sat there and the woman came over. She was tall and slim and she had the most unusual eyes I've ever seen. She also had a gun tucked into the back of her jeans, which pretty much settled it for me: they were definitely here on some covert activity. I'm not exactly stupid, you know. She sat down and looked at me intently and I smiled at her and wondered what sort kinky game we were about to get involved in. I was mentally working out a price and wondering how much I could charge, when she put her hand on top of mine and started to speak.


	2. Chapter 2

"You know the Commescus, right? You work for them?" The American's eyes were really intense and she bent forward, clasping her hands tightly. I could tell this was really important to her.

"I don't work for them. I work for myself. They just take a percentage." The Commescus were like that. They didn't dirty their own hands, but they managed to have a finger in every pie.

"We need information – and we're willing to pay. American dollars."

Well, she'd just said the magic words. And it was good to talk, after all. "Cash?"

She nodded and showed me a roll of money. A lot of lovely, American money.

"We've got a deal. But not here." The café was far too public and after all, I had my reputation to consider. "And I'll talk to him and nobody else." I pointed to my legionnaire, who was sitting there with the two other men, watching every move we made.

"Not me?" The American woman looked surprised. She also looked a little sad: I have no idea why. She didn't strike me as the type to like women, but who am I to judge?

"Him – or the deal's off and I walk." That was one thing I wasn't going to negotiate on.

"Fair enough." She knew when to close a bargain, I'll give her that. I watched as she went back to her comrades and had a brief discussion. His head shot up and he looked at me. I sat there, calm as you like and smiled at him. It was as if I'd been waiting my whole life for this moment. He nodded and I nodded back, finished my coffee and then walked slowly across the square, knowing they were all watching me. I could feel his eyes burning into me and I wanted him like I'd never wanted any man, before or since.

* * *

><p>That was how we ended up sitting in my tiny room, me and my legionnaire. There isn't a whole lot of room, so our knees were almost touching, but he didn't try to lay a finger on me. Like I said, he was polite, a real gentleman, and you don't come across too many of them in my line of business. Or maybe I just attract the wrong type? Of course, there isn't a lot of choice in this town.<p>

"Tell me about the Commescus." Did I tell you how much I love American accents? All soft and drawling, it's like they're brought up sipping honey. His voice made me feel all warm inside.

I talked, and he listened. I told him everything I knew about the family; how they were ruled by their matriarch. She was a bitter old woman and as a child I'd believed the stories about how she would put curses on people. Mothers would tell their children to behave, or the old Commescu woman would turn them into piglets and then cut off their tales. We were all scared of the Commescus when I was a child. I'm still scared, if you want the truth.

And then I told him about Dracul, the heir apparent. He wasn't up to much; he let his head be swayed by a pretty face and a pert butt. I should know – he was one of my best customers. So believe me when I tell you that he wasn't up to much. Dracul didn't care much for anything in life except his family and money. Not necessarily in that order either. Dracul was just a petty thug who enjoyed the power that being a member of the Commescus gave him. There were various other cousins, who 'took care of business'. None of them were ever going to set the heather on fire, but as they were all over six foot and built like Sherman tanks, few people bothered to tell them that. We'd all learned a long time ago to tread carefully around the Commescus, unless you wanted an unfortunate accident – or worse.

Finally, I told him about Elenna – the cousin who'd come back. She'd left a few years ago, but now she was back. Only it wasn't Elenna. I couldn't understand why the family were so easily fooled by her, but I knew better. We'd been friendly back in the day, Elenna and I. She was like me, you see. No better than she ought to be, if you want the truth, only it wasn't like she was doing it for the money. Elenna had sex with strangers because she wanted to, because it was her way of putting two fingers up at the family. She hated them as much as the rest of us and she couldn't wait to get away. So when this woman rolled into town with her prissy face, I smelt a rat. And when she walked right past me and gave me a sweet smile, I knew for sure. The Elenna I knew would either have ignored me or thrown her arms around me. Plus, I knew for a fact she was married and living in America. She's promised to help me get away from this dump of a town and her family.

My legionnaire sat up a bit straighter when I told him that. "That's interesting. Anything else you can tell me?" He moved slightly in his chair and his leg brushed against mine and I felt as if a current of electricity passed from his body into mine.

Well, I could have told him a whole heap of things, like how he had the bluest eyes I'd ever seen, and that I could smell the scent of the sea in his hair, and the warm aroma of the sand, but I knew better. You never show the cards you're holding too early in the game, after all. So instead I told him about the interior of the Commescu house instead. Dracul had taken me there a few times when the old hag was out gathering herbs for her potions or whatever the hell she did. He got me to make a sketch and bent over the paper as I drew a rough plan. He had the longest, most beautiful fingers I'd ever seen, and I started to think about how they would feel roaming over my body.

"You've been very helpful, Nadia." So formal, so very polite. He even held out his hand for me to shake.

"You don't have to go." I was blushing like some sort of maiden, holding onto his hand. "Please – stay with me. Just for tonight."

"My friends are waiting." He looked at me intently and I knew he wanted me as much as I wanted him. Just seeing the way he looked at me made me feel as if the sun rose and set again in his face. I couldn't remember ever feeling like that before. No man had ever made me feel like that before, and none has since. He made me forget myself; he made me forget who I was and what I did. He made me feel like someone else – someone good.

"You're a long way from home," I said and the strangest look came over his face, like clouds passing over the moon.

"I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep."

I found out later that's from a poem but at the time I just thought it was beautiful. I thought he was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. "Come back. Please. I don't want money – I just want you." I took the thick wad of money and pressed it into his hand.

"You keep it." His fingers closed over mine. "I'll see what I can do." And then he raised my hand to his lips and kissed it. So you can see why I've never forgotten him, my legionnaire. So I didn't know anything about him, except that he was slim and handsome and he smelled like good warm sand. Sometimes I go down to the beach and fill my hands with sand and I remember him. He came back of course, just like I knew he would. I told you I was a good judge of men, didn't I?


	3. Chapter 3

It was evening when my legionnaire came back, and the lights in the square were casting a glow that made his hair shine brightly in the darkness, burning like burnished gold. As I watched, he stopped and looked up at my window and when he saw me, his face lit up. Looking back, I think he knew, in fact I'm certain of that. And you can say that it is easy to be wise after the event, that hindsight is a wonderful thing, but there was a wistful yearning in his face, a look that haunts me down all the days. He had come here with no illusions – he was here to pay a debt, a debt of honour and he knew he wasn't going back to America. I'd seen that look before in men's eyes and I shivered when I recognised it in his face, his beautiful face. No-one should have that sort of knowledge.

He loved me all night, with a desperate, sweet anguish. His skin was golden, like the sand, and warm and soft and smooth. I let my fingers dance over it. "You don't have any tattoos." Most men in his line of work did, and you can believe me on that. I've been with enough to be an expert.

"So maybe I'll get some. What do you recommend?"

I placed my hand over his heart and felt the strong, steady beat. "No one." I traced the letters out on his skin with my index finger and he smiled, a strange, haunting smile that had the world behind it, a world of shadows and strangers. His smile was the deadest thing alive enough to have the strength to die and his eyes were hollow.

"That sounds about right." There was an ineffable sadness in his voice. "There is no one. I wish there was. That's me: not seen, not taken. Not wanted." And I knew he was thinking about the girl with the strange eyes.

"Maybe she has her reasons?" Although I couldn't think of any.

"I could get that tattooed as well. On my right arm, to remind me."

I stayed in his arms all night, and he in mine. He slept like a boy, and all the lines of worry smoothed themselves out, so that towards morning he lay peacefully, looking like an angel, his fair hair spread out like a halo on the pillow. And when he slept, I wept for what might have been.

I didn't know his name, I knew nothing about him, and yet I knew everything. He loved me all night, loved me in the manner of a man who craves loves and is seizing it with both hands, knowing this is his last chance. The weight of his lost happiness fell heavily all around us. Always I think about that night and the way happiness was so fleeting. I hope he was happy, if only for a few hours. He deserved that much.

I think about that night and lust for him eats me up. Sometimes, I cry and think that when he lay on me, so that our hearts were beating together, I should have cried out my happiness and let him know that he was loved. But I was afraid to see him smile again. And it probably wouldn't have mattered much anyway.

He loved me all night, and he left me in the morning, just as I knew he would. I knew that much about him: that he was tall; he was slim and handsome; he had beautiful bright eyes that would darken in sorrow, just as the clouds pass over the sun and of course I knew that he would leave me, for that was my destiny, to stay here and watch as he walked out to meet his fate, that bright summer morning and left me to face mine. We were both alone, in a world full of strangers. I knew nothing about him, I knew I was nothing to him, and yet I knew everything there was to know. Above all, I knew I would never forget him.

He left me just as the sun started to break through the dawn, and I stood once again at my window and watched him walk back across the square and then turn down an alley, to where his friends were waiting. At the corner of the alley, he paused and turned back to look at me, just as a ray of sunshine illuminated his face, and sent light into his hair. There was a world of empty longing in his eyes and for a moment that spanned across time we looked at one another, before he turned and walked away. As I watched him disappear into the shadows I realised that he was ready, that he had accepted his fate and was going willingly to meet it. I wondered who could inspire such loyalty, such love and if they would ever understand his sacrifice.

Later that morning, the Commescu house rang with sound of gunfire, and wise people shut the doors of their houses, turned the sound up on their televisions and pretended not to notice. The town had all learned a long time ago that it wisest to not to notice anything the Commescus did and definitely not to say anything. If you wanted to stay alive and in good health, you were blind, deaf and dumb when it came to that family. But I've never been particularly smart when it comes to lifestyle choices, so I ran down the stairway, emerging in the square just in time to see my legionnaire chasing one of the lesser members of the Commescu family. His gun was in his hand and I can still hear the sound of his boot heels ringing out across the cobblestones and the echoes being flung back by the stone walls of the houses. He ran like an athlete, with long strides and arms pumping the air, but the Commescu had the advantage of knowing the local terrain, and dived down a side street that lead to the beach.

Like I said before, it's not much of a town, but we have a nice beach: broad and long, with golden sand. That morning, there was a fierce wind, and the sea was full of white horses and the waves crashed upon the sand with a harsh fury, leaving spume bubbling on the foreshore. I know, because I started to run after him, running as fast as I had ever run in my life, trying to grab hold of destiny and pull it apart. But fate had already been written, and that day fate appeared in the vengeful form of Dracul Commescu. He came out of nowhere, with a rifle in his hand and as I watched, he took careful aim.

My legionnaire was running across the sand, running as if he was accustomed to it, and he was gaining ground on his quarry when a shot rang out and the gulls rose into the sky in a squawking flurry of wings. It was his destiny to die on that beach, on the warm sand; to die in an instant as a bullet crashed into his back and severed his spine. They said afterwards that he was already dead by the time he collapsed onto his knees, but he hung, suspended in space and time, as the gulls hovered overhead and chattered their ire like some malevolent Greek chorus and I started screaming and running towards him. All I know is that he was dead when I got to him, lying on his back, looking up at the sky with empty eyes from which all the light had disappeared. I took the gun from his hand and shot Dracul Commescu right between the eyes. It pays to know how to protect yourself in my line of work.

When other Americans arrived, I was sitting by his side, holding his hand and looking at the smile on his face. I knew why that smile had frightened me before: it was the smile of one for whom death is an old friend, someone to be welcomed rather than resisted. The wind was blowing and his eyes were full of the warm sand, but his hand was already cold. I think they knew from the look on my face that he was already dead. Or maybe it was the body of Dracul, who lay sprawled in an inelegant heap that gave it away.

The woman stood like a statue, her hair whipping around her in the wind, and the older man put his arm around her, seeking solace or maybe offering comfort. She lifted back her head and cried out, an eerie, keening sound that soared above the noise of the sea and then floated away impotently on the breeze. Their companion, the tall, black man fell down onto his knees on the sand and closed his friend's eyes with an infinitely gentle hand. When he turned to me, I saw that he was crying.

"He was ready," I said. "He met his death like a man." Then I got up and walked away, leaving them alone with their grief. I did not look back, but just kept on walking and I let the wind whip away my tears and dry the traces they left on my face.

So, here you are, sitting in the café drinking coffee with the girl your mother warned you about becoming. You don't know anything about me, you don't even know my name, but you do know that once upon a time, I had one perfect night, with a man who walked out to meet his death with a smile upon his face. And I will always remember that night, and my legionnaire. He was tall, he was handsome and when the sunshine fell on his face as he lay on the beach, it sent light shining into his hair, so that it burned like a bright beacon, as if he was flame capped like Achilles. I knew nothing about him, I did not even know his name, but I have never forgotten him. And at the going down of the sun, I remember how he came to me, and when it rises again in the morning I can almost see him running out to die on the sand.

One day, I'll get out of here. But I will always remember that day on the beach: how the sun shone, and the waves broke upon the shore and the gulls circled overhead; and how my legionnaire lay there, with a smile on his face and the sand filling his bright eyes. He met his destiny here and for the moment, it seems as if I will do the same. I haven't given up hope though - not completely. One day I'll get out of here. I might even get to America. I've always had this thing for Americans, you see. And in the meantime, I have no regrets, absolutely none. I have my memories, and whenever I smell the sun upon the sand I remember my legionnaire, and the way he felt in my arms. Only, whenever I hear Edith Piaf sing, I wonder what might have happened, what might have been…

I'm not so different from you. Once I loved and was loved. Can anyone ask for more? I have my dreams, just as you do. And one day I will reach out and take hold of them. Until then, I do whatever I have to do just to keep on living. I'm not ready to walk out into the sunshine and meet my fate.

_J'sais pas son nom, je n'sais rien d'lui._  
><em>Il m'a aimée toute la nuit,<em>  
><em>Mon légionnaire !<em>  
><em>Et me laissant à mon destin,<em>  
><em>Il est parti dans le matin<em>  
><em>Plein de lumière !<em>  
><em>Il était minc', il était beau,<em>  
><em>Il sentait bon le sable chaud,<em>  
><em>Mon légionnaire !<em>  
><em>Y avait du soleil sur son front<em>  
><em>Qui mettait dans ses cheveux blonds<em>  
><em>De la lumière !<em>

Mon Legionnaire lyrics by Raymond Asso


End file.
